


Homosexuell

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Concentration Camps, Feels, Frottage, Homophobia, M/M, Mass Death, Modern Era, Murder, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are separated for two years when John is thrown into a concentration camp. When they reunite John has to make a painful choice: work for his freedom or embrace his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homosexuell

It had happened gradually. Someone had made a post on an internet social site- the original author lost in shares- about showing solidarity to those in Russia and other countries that were heavily punishing LGBTQIA people.

 

_Little known fact: In concentration camps the Star of David wasn’t the only patch people were forced to wear. Gay people were forced to wear an upside-down pink triangle. Let us show solidarity to our kindred in countries persecuting LGBTQIA people by donning this upside-down pink triangle once again._

<http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/fa/Pink_triangle.svg>

The movement spread quicky. John bought an arm band a week into it that he proudly wore every day to support Harry and others. Even Sherlock got into it and bought a pair of gloves that had a pink triangle on the back of each hand. For a while everyone was excited and patting themselves on the back, and the entire world was taking up the markings with those in persecuted areas meeting in areas where a pink triangle was marked with graffiti.

The first camp was rumoured to exist somewhere in the Middle East, but so much had been going on there that most people shrugged it off. That was a place where terrible things happened. It was nothing new. Then more showed up in Africa and a few people took notice. Then Russia. Still, it was far away and not the problem of good and just English folk. After all, no countries in Europe had such homophobic laws.

One day John, his mother, and Harry were called to a court date. They arrived confused and frustrated, John and his mother assuming that Harry had fallen off the wagon and committed some crime. They were taken into a court room with a judge and several armed guards.

“Harriet Watson you are accused of being homosexual, how do you plead?”

“Fabulous,” Harry replied, narrowing her eyes, “What is this, some sort of joke? It’s not funny.”

Harry gave John and their mother a nasty look, but they were both confused and offended.

“Please limit your reply to ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’.”

“Guilty,” Harry replied, folding her arms over her chest.

“In an effort to conform to UN and NATO laws passed on October 22nd of this year we are assigning markings to anyone who expresses interest in the same gender or who identify as a different gender. You will go through the door to your left and submit yourself to the care of the doctor there. He has your medical history.”

“What bullshit is this?!” Harry screeched while John stood up from his seat in anger.

“This is too far!” John snapped, “What the hell kind of joke is this?!”

“It’s no joke,” The judge replied, looking miserable, “I’m truly sorry. In an effort to avoid war we’re now complying with laws not our own. Peaceful acceptance is our only option for the greater good.”

“Greater good my arse!” John shouted, “What do you think you…”

“We now call John Watson to the stand,” The bailiff announced.

“Not guilty,” John spat out automatically before he’d even approached. He wasn’t gay, after all, just a supporter.

Harry gave him a betrayed look as two armed guards dragged her off. John immediately stammered, trying to take back his words. He tried to go after her but was faced with a threat of imprisonment. He put a hand over the armband on his upper arm. He  _wanted_  to support Harry! Yet he was ushered forward into her previous position and interrogated to within an inch of his life. He left with an order to wear his armband at all times. His mother, however, claimed to be gay. He knew why she did it as she was led off to join her daughter in the other chamber. John had never been so disgusted with himself in his life. His mother hadn’t even glanced back at him.

John still had nightmares about the last time he saw Harry and his mother. It was entirely possible they were still alive, but he knew for a fact that he was dead to Harry if not his mother as well. He couldn’t blame them. He’d made excuses.  _I was being honest. I wasn’t trying to take sides. We were never close. It was just automatic. I was in shock._ Yet none of it mattered. In the end he had stood by and taken the easy way out while Harry and his mother had been marked and taken to the camps. He’d gone home to demand Sherlock take her case and fix it to find that he was silent on the matter. His pink triangle gloves were gone. He refused to say why and they had a terrible row.

Eventually the stigma of  _gay_ reached him despite the fact he claimed not to be. He was placed in a camp for those related to homosexuals where he was to prove his heterosexuality before being released to ‘join the breeding masses’. There he read the propaganda. Homosexuality was a crime. It was a sin. It was the foul stench that filled the streets. It spread diseases. It caused rifts in families. It made spouses cheat on each other. By ridding the world of all those who carried the ‘gay gene’ the world would become a better place. John just had to prove he wasn’t a carrier… by scorning his sister and mother and any other ‘faggots’ in the world. He would be given tests to pass, and if he did so he could rejoin civilization.

John had been stubborn at first. He’d sat in the camp for a year refusing to be ashamed. Refusing to remove and burn his armband, but also refusing to let them tattoo an inverted pink triangle on his forehead to show his ‘confession’. If he did ‘confess’ they would inevitably send him to the camp with his sister and mother, or so they claimed. He could be with his family. He wouldn’t be treated cruelly. The camps were comfortable for those staying long term, it was only the short ones that were intolerable.

 

_Short term my arse. I’ve been here nearly two years. There aren’t enough blankets in winter and there’s not enough clean water in summer. I’ve forgotten what tea tastes like. I stink and I’ve had lice twice. I’m tired and my joints ache. I just want to go home._

And the fact was that once the ‘short term’ started feeling like ‘long term’ John started to hate. At first he’d hated himself as he started going through the motions required to get himself released- reading their literature and spewing hatred about LGBTQIA people. Then after months of saying it he started hating everyone and everything else. He started hating that pink triangle and anyone who donned it. Finally he removed his armband and burned it as he’d been told to. They  _still_ didn’t release him. He was told he had to prove himself after so long fighting the system.

“John?”

John turned in surprise at that familiar deep voice and stared at the sight of Sherlock Holmes standing before him as he always did- in a now worn long black coat.

“John!” Sherlock grinned, stepping forward as John eagerly stood up to greet him.

Then they both froze as realization came between them. Sherlock had the tattoo. John did not. If he was in  _this_  camp with a tattoo than it was to test John or some member of his family who were here. John’s stomach twisted in pain. He’d not seen his friend in two years and they’d parted badly. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to grab onto his arm and  _never_ let him go because the last two years had been horrific. He wanted to drag him aside and tell him his woes while Sherlock played the violin and pretended not to listen. He wanted to pluck out all the grey hairs that had appeared in Sherlock’s hair since the last time they’d laid eyes on each other.

He couldn’t go near him and Sherlock had deduced why. He was so close to getting released. The guards were bored of him. He’d managed to ignore every trial they’d set before him. He’d resisted the urge to go and be with his family. He’d booed, hissed, and spat at anyone wearing the same tattoo on Sherlock’s forehead. He’d betrayed himself, his family, and his ideals in the pursuit of a freedom that he had once been proud to fight for. He was no longer the man who had leant Sherlock his phone in St. Bart’s.

“You should hit me,” Sherlock stated softly, blinking eyes that were wet with unshed tears, “If you beat me thoroughly they’ll likely release you quickly. Just get it over with and get on with your life. You don’t deserve what they’ve done to you.”

“Yeah I do,” John replied miserably, “You have no idea how much I deserve this.”

“I’m sure anything you’ve done has been to survive,” Sherlock replied.

John stepped forward, eyes tense with anxiety, licked his thumb, and rubbed at the mark on Sherlock’s forehead. The man hissed in pain and pulled back.

“It’s fresh,” Sherlock replied, “Still hurts.”

“It’s not paint.”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, “I’m afraid this is no ruse to break you out, though I wish it was. Really, John. Just do it. At least one of us will be free.”

“I… I can’t,” John replied, “You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you. Didn’t even know you were… like that.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I made a mistake. I’ve been hiding it for years knowing full well things were building to something awful- Mycroft was dropping hints but nothing definitive was told to me. Then a month ago I just… snapped.”

“Snapped?” John asked in surprise.

“I was tired, John. Tired of lying, tired of hiding, tired of lusting from afar, tired of leading a loveless, sexless life because for some sick reason  _my_  desires are  _wrong_. I went to a meeting, fully aware it was more than likely a trap but too hopeful to meet someone to share my pain with. I was… I was thinking of you. I’ve missed you. I loved you once…”

John flinched and Sherlock looked down, shame etched on his face.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t need to hear that. I just never expected to see you again. Or to miss you half as much as I did. Do.”

John stared at the ground between them, fighting back tears and swallowing down his grief. Freedom or the last of his dignity. Freedom or his best friend. Freedom or his best friend’s heart. Freedom or his family’s respect. Freedom or his self-respect.

“There’s food over…”

“John!” Sherlock shouted angrily, “Just  _do it_! Hit me and you’re free! You  _know_  this is a test!”

“I can’t. Come on. You can’t skip a meal here. You never know when the next one will happen,” John replied, reaching out a hand and grabbing Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock shoved him hard enough to send John staggering sideways, nearly toppling him to the floor. He looked angry… no… sad. His face was twisted up with a hurt that ran so deep it was pulsing rage through his veins. John put his arms up in surrender, but Sherlock wasn’t seeing him through the tears running down his cheeks. He flew at John with a savage howl, but John simply tossed him to the ground. Then he waited. Sherlock scrambled up again, this time with a forced calm. They circled each other while guards cheered and prisoners watched with dead eyes.

“Dinner is getting cold,” John scolded.

“It was likely served cold,” Sherlock reminded, “A hot meal, John. You’ve likely not had one for  _years_. Just fell me and move on with your life!”

“It isn’t a life. This isn’t living.”

“Exactly!”

“What I’d be doing out of here wouldn’t be living either,” John pointed out, “What you were doing wasn’t living. I’d rather die here than live a lie anymore.”

John lowered his arms. Sherlock did so as well, his expression one of sorrow and defeat, but also relief. He hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward and drew John into a tight hug. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s thin waist and held him tightly. It was his first human contact that wasn’t an act of violence in over a year.

“Come on,” John insisted, pulling away reluctantly, “I meant it about the food.”

The prisoners were wandering off, back towards the food lines or towards their bunks. The guards were shouting foul words at them. One threw a rock, but missed. John ignored it. There was nothing they could do. Sherlock glanced up at them with fear in his eyes.

“I’m a target here,” He said, his voice holding horrified realization, “I’ve never been out before. I don’t even know what it  _means_.”

“We’ll get out.”

“I don’t think we will,” Sherlock replied, “Mycroft has lost all power. We could certainly escape easily enough, but we could be shot doing so. Or we could escape only to be re-caught and gassed.”

“ _Gassed_?!” John asked in horror.

Sherlock gave him a pitying look, “You’re short on news here. This is the holocaust without the benefit of a war or any Allies to break us out. Our country has folded. They are still run by the English… so long as we do as they say over the ‘bigger issues’. And the latest ‘big issue’ has been the extermination of the ‘gay vermin’.”

“My sister is dead,” John realized, staring at the coat of the prisoner in front of him, “She died thinking I’d betrayed her.”

“I’d comfort you, but you know I don’t go on for all that religious nonsense.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, “Don’t think I do anymore either.”

They got their meals in silence and then sat down to eat the thin soup. It was mostly broth and potatoes, but no one dared to complain. Nearby a man was violently ill, but no one reacted other than to move further away. The sick sometimes received treatment, but if contagion started up the guards would simply seal up the camp and let it run its course. They had small fields they tended when there wasn’t snow on the ground and chicken coop, but for the most part they were reliant on the guards for food and other necessities. John treated wounds, but without medicine there was little else he could do. A dentist who was with them had pulled teeth for a few who were badly infected, but the rate of death afterwards was nearly equal to the rate of recovery.

When the food had been finished there was nothing to do on the frosty evening besides sit around the burning barrels and talk. They did so in hushed tones, those nearby who weren’t afraid of his symbol asking Sherlock for news of the outside world. He had nothing good to tell them and soon silence reigned.

“Bed,” John grunted eventually, and tugged on Sherlock’s arm to get him moving. He followed John to one of the single-story buildings and they entered in silence, “This is where the toilets and showers are. No privacy. The toilets are composting toilets, but the showers have plumbing; it’s solar powered so we get hot water on sunny days only. You need to shower or anything?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted.

“Towels are there. We do our own laundry for our clothes, but the towels and blankets are done by a service. Once they run out they’re out. Don’t ask the guards for more. They’ll force you into the showers, turn it on cold, and rape you with their clubs.”

“Fucking hell,” Sherlock whispered.

“Don’t ask for blankets either. You’ll end up sleeping outside. One per person. Bunk up and you’ll be sent to the ‘gay camp’.”

“Where you’ll be promptly executed. Good to know,” Sherlock replied, his eyes taking on that same hopeless look John was familiar with in the mirror.

“If someone tells,” John shrugged, “Lots of guys bunk up and no one says anything. Then someone gets desperate to leave and uses it as an opportunity to prove themselves, next thing you know there are a few empty beds. Never more blankets. No idea what they do with them.”

“They bury the prisoner with them.”

“Wasteful,” John grunted, “There’s no soap right now. Once a month they give each of us a bar. I’d give you mine but I always use it on people’s injuries.”

“I’ll manage without.”

“I’ll wait here with my back turned. Shower’s a dangerous place.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock showered in silence. John could hear his teeth chattering. No hot water left. They hurried to the next building and John held the door for Sherlock since he was shaking so much he couldn’t manage the knob. He hurried in and headed for the nearest bunk. John stopped him.

“Occupied. If it has a blanket it’s not yours. Don’t steal or you’ll be reported for it.”

“Where…?”

“Like I said. No extra blankets. You weren’t given one when you came in?”

“No.”

“Damn!” John swore, “They’re really trying to get us killed! Or at least you killed. Okay. We bunk up.”

“I w-won’t p-put your l-life in d-“

“I’m already dead, Sherlock,” John snapped, “Come on.”

John dragged him towards his own bunk where a few names had been carved in the old paint on the metal rails and then crossed out. So far John’s name still remained. So far. Sherlock shakily climbed into the second bunk- no ladders as they could be used for escape- and struggled beneath the army issue fleece blanket with his jacket still on. John did the same, joining him with his back pressed tightly to Sherlock’s front.

“This is awkward,” Sherlock fussed, wriggling about.

“Just deal with it,” John sighed.

“After my ill advised words earlier I feel uncomfortable sharing a bed with you.”

“I’m fine with it, Sherlock. We’re fine. It’s all fine.”

“It’s  _not_  fine. I’m picturing you naked.”

“Well you should probably stop that,” John scolded, trying to push the amused smirk off of his face.

“I’ll get an erection in the morning.”

“It’s too damn cold for that.”

“Is this building unheated?”

“A bit. They don’t turn it on until 10PM. Also it gets warmer once everyone is inside occupying the same space,” John replied.

“Even in winter?!”

“Yeah, that’s why we stay outside. The sun is warmer and if the doors stay shut all day the heat stays in a bit. Otherwise we’d be running to the bathroom and…  _Stop fidgeting!_ ”

“I can’t. I haven’t seen you in years- thought you were dead- and am now sharing a bed with you. I’m aroused and awkwardly emotional.”

“You’ve been here less than a day and I already want to strangle you. We might end up getting me released after all,” John sighed, rubbing at his forehead, “Wank if you have to. Everyone does.”

“While sharing a bunk?”

“Well, only the gay ones do that but…” John winced, “Sorry. Habit. Look, I won’t judge and we’re the only ones in here right now.”

_Because the gay ones go to bed first. It’s some odd unspoken rule. The ones who are planning to shag turn in an hour before the rest come in. So why did I bring him in here this early? Freud would be laughing his arse off._

“You won’t get…” Sherlock’s hand fluttered in the air in John’s field of vision, “Weird about this?”

“Probably,” John replied honestly, “But we might as well make the best of it. Just make sure you have something to smear the mess on.”

“Like what?”

“Leaves. There’s a pile in the corner. We keep them to wipe our noses and dicks on.”

“ _Charming_ ,” Sherlock growled. He crawled over John and fumbled around in the semi-dark before finding the leaves. The light from the guard towers came in through the tiny windows to light his way back. John watched his familiar silhouette and wished for a different time and place.

Sherlock climbed back into the bunk and curled up behind John again, tugging his trousers down and beginning to stroke himself quickly after swearing a good deal.

“Hand cold?”

“Icy. It proves my ardour that I’m not the least bit put off by it.”

“Well, I’m damn sexy. Can’t blame you there.”

“Even with a beard,” Sherlock laughed breathily, “You are a truly stunning man, John Watson.”

 _No I’m not_ , John thought, but he didn’t want to ruin Sherlock’s fantasy so he kept his mouth shut. The man soon came with a grunt and the sound of leaves and his awkward fumbling met John’s ears.

“That was disgusting,” Sherlock snarled.

“Satisfying though, I hope?” John chuckled.

“Not enough,” Sherlock replied with a sigh, doing his trousers back up and tossing the leaves on the ground. They’d be swept out come spring.

They settled in against each other again and John soon drifted off to sleep.

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nazi_concentration_camp_badges#Table_of_camp_inmate_markings>

<http://76crimes.com/76-countries-where-homosexuality-is-illegal/>

CHAPTER 2

The next morning dawned with outrage and hateful glances thrown their way. Those who were standing fast on the gay brigade were furious that John’s former words had been a cover for his apparent homosexuality. Those in the group that were trying to get out and had been doing the same as John were accusing him of selling out or spewing homophobic vitriol towards him already. Overall he spent the next day staying close to Sherlock while not letting on that they were sharing a bunk. Someone was bound to report them eventually, but he could always say it was because his friend was blanket-less in the middle of the damn winter. Maybe they’d survive. Maybe.

 

_Or maybe Sherlock will be pulled out of here once they decide their trick failed and kill him._

That thought sent a horrible chill through John’s body and he drifted closer to Sherlock. The former consulting detective glanced down at John, took in his expression, and gave him a worried look. Yet when John tried to scoot closer and take his hand the man pulled away.

“Don’t. Not yet,” Sherlock said softly, “Tonight we’ll make an attempt at an escape. If we make it we’ll go into hiding. If we don’t we’ll either be killed off together or put back in here. If we end up back in here we’ll go to plan B.”

“Which is?”

“We pretend to be a couple as you’re currently planning now and let them destroy us. At least we’ll be together. Some day this has to end, but at least this way it will be on our terms.”

John sighed in relief and nodded. He could live with the last scenario, which is what he rather expected to happen. He’d already tried escaping several times and hadn’t managed it, but of course Sherlock’s genius might have been what he was lacking. They remained at a friendly distance for the rest of the day and when night fell they turned in later rather than at the hour lovers turned in. There they waited, sitting side by side in the darkness with their blanket wrapped around them. When the time came they slipped down and Sherlock headed to the bathroom first with a whispered instruction for John to follow in five minutes. John counted it out and then hurried there while the spotlight followed him. He had a bullseye patch on his his jacket and shirt, a reminder that they were aware he had attempted escape before. They’d be able to see it in the light. John stepped into the bathroom with his heartrate elevated but an external calm in place

“Sherlock?”

“Here,” sherlock spoke softly.

John hurried forward and found Sherlock staring down at their drain.

“I think it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, short jokes aside.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in that familiar grin and John felt himself relax a fraction more.

“The sewer system, John. You see the most effective way to break out of a jail is to leave via a tunnel, but that could take _years_  and I at the very least do not have that time. However, this camp was quickly constructed and only the showers were given plumbing. There isn’t even tile, and I’m willing to bet that beneath these plastic veneers are wood. That’s important. We can use the weakened area around the pipes to guide us into a very  _fast_  tunnel digging expedition. We’ll be out by morning. Or dead.”

“The surround?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked and held up a broken piece of metal. He handed John another and they began prying up the out the shower stall’s plastic walls. Beneath was a bit of rotted out wood as Sherlock had suspected. They pried out the nails, being delayed by having to take out yet  _another_  shower section in order to get the main board out, and then heaved it upwards.

“No,” Sherlock breathed in horror.

“Cement,” John groaned, “They actually  _did_  put effort in.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock stammered, “There’s no proper foundation visible from the outside. The damn thing is on cinder blocks!”

“Maybe they used a septic tank instead of hooking it up to the sewer system?” John suggested.

“Or worse,” Sherlock groaned, “They refaced a building that was already here and this is the original foundation. They just built around it, putting the extensions on blocks so the composting toilets had room.”

“I’m sorry,” John sighed, “Do you have another plan?”

“Not one that would allow us to leave tonight,” Sherlock replied miserably, “We’ll have to go back.”

“Come on,” John replied, taking his hand, but Sherlock pulled it away sharply.

“You are  _not_  giving up! There’s still a chance we can survive this! You just have to play along for a bit longer. Tomorrow you’ll have a row with me. Bruise me a bit and they’ll give us more time.”

“You promised,” John insisted, “You promised we’d fake a relationship and die together rather than continue going through  _this_!”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, looking haggard, “But I can’t do this, John. I’ve only just got you back. I can’t lose you again. Just give me more time!”

“Okay,” John closed his eyes and sighed, “One more try.”

Sherlock pulled him into a tight hug and they clutched each other for a moment. When they eased away Sherlock’s eyes held such want that John simply couldn’t deny him. He leaned forward and pressed their lips together, dragging Sherlock against him by his curly locks with all the hunger of a lonely man. Sherlock’s hands flew to John’s torso, grasping his body with so much need that John gasped. The opening of his mouth resulted in Sherlock’s tongue sliding in with a wanton groan. John found himself pinned to the nearest shower wall, Sherlock’s hands pressing into his clothes to frantically paw at his flesh. The former consulting detective was trembling.

“Sherlock,” John whispered when he managed a word between frantic kisses. The other man was working his way down John’s neck. He made a soft sound that  _almost_  sounded questioning, “Sherlock, we just... okay.”

John gave up his argument in favour of kissing the detective back. He needed this as much as Sherlock did, his trousers quickly becoming far too restrictive. If- when- worse came to worse they’d at least have  _this_. Sherlock wouldn’t die a lonely virgin. John would experience the persecution he’d contributed to. All would be wrong in the world, but at least right between them.

They sank to their knees, hurriedly undoing clothes and hissing at the cold bursts of air. The bathroom managed to be a bit warmer than the sleeping quarters due to the heat from the (sometimes) hot showers, but it was still chilly and  _very_ humid. They hurried to get closer to each other and John found himself arching his back to press his lower torso against Sherlock’s hot body with his head and shoulders braced against the wall behind him. Sherlock grasped his arse and rolled his hips into John’s, their cocks sliding into the groves between hip and stomach. John groaned as Sherlock hungrily bit and sucked at his neck and shoulder, their moans becoming more frantic by the second.

Both would have liked to draw it out. Neither could. They could be caught at any moment and their lives would be forfeit. Sherlock being more inexperienced came between them first and John shifted his hips so he could fuck into the slick patch. Sherlock still held him tightly, his arms wrapped around his body as he encouraged John to find his release. He was whispering his name almost worshipfully and John was completely undone by it. He came sobbing out Sherlock’s name, his eyes damp at the corners.

For a few seconds they simply held each other, and then they carefully separated and cleaned up as best they could. They re-dressed and silently put the showers back together. Sherlock kept the nails and John didn’t ask about the boards creaking without them. The showers were un-caulked now, but he doubted anyone would say anything.

CHAPTER 3

Their second attempt didn’t make it farther than the edge of the gates. Sherlock was using the nails to disable the electronic surveillance when they were discovered by the spot lights. They were arrested, interrogated, and thrown into separate cells. Sherlock found a hole and whispered to John through it. John could barely understand him, but he kept his ear plastered to the wall nonetheless. He needed something to keep him grounded.

“I’ve lost myself, Sherlock,” He whispered back at one point, “I don’t like who I’ve become. Fix me again?”

“Always, my doctor,” Sherlock whispered back.

Morning brought an unmarked white van that they were shoved into. Their wrists were cuffed, but Sherlock quickly worked them free with a spare bit of wire he’d managed to lift from the halls. He held John tightly a moment and then worked on the door. When it opened they both jumped blindly and rolled from the roadside. They scrambled into bushes, keeping low to avoid attention as they broke through bracken that tore at their skin and clung to their clothes. Hand in hand they ran, hearts in their throats and wind stinging their eyes. The world had become a cold place, but the weather was only partly to blame. They weren’t free yet; they were only in a larger cage.

This was made all the clearer when they tried to move through a city. Sherlock hid the mark on his forehead and John walked with purpose as he usually did, but still they were stopped. Before his hat could be removed Sherlock bolted and John hurried after, ducking and weaving through streets that didn’t _feel_  like they belonged to the monarchy anymore. They felt savage. Cold. Uncivilized. People glared from beneath faded winter hats and over home-made scarves of rough material. Children were angry and threw rocks at them. Teens gathered in large groups and stared threats at any who passed.

“This isn’t England anymore.”

“We’re in Scotland,” Sherlock replied with a grunt, “Did you not know?”

“Fine. This isn’t  _Europe_  anymore. We’ve become what we fought against. The Allied Forces would puke if they saw this.”

“The entire world is seeing it and they’re just doing  _nothing_ ,” Sherlock replied.

They had slowed down to a brisk walk and were just keeping their heads down, hoping to get away from the main areas and find refuge amongst the homeless. Sherlock had just found someone to ask advice of when a tussle broke out across the street from them. John started towards it, never one to let someone be victimized (at least not his old self, who he was slowly remembering) but a gun shot rang out before he could take two steps. John winced, glancing around in alarm, but the two had separated and were running, one of them screaming.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, turning around again, “We’d better get out of here before…”

John stared down at Sherlock’s empty eyes and the growing puddle of red around his head. The street had emptied faster than a man could blink but even if it hadn’t there was no help that could save Sherlock. He was gone before he’d hit the ground. John sank down beside him, staring at his lost love in horror and mourning all the wasted years.

They arrested him half an hour later, still sobbing by Sherlock’s cold body.

John marched slowly towards his fate. John didn’t try to break from the line and run. There were gunmen surrounding them just  _waiting_  for someone to bolt. The tattoo stung in the icy wind that spat slush down on them, but John’s hat was rolled up too far to pretect him much. He wanted the last sight of him to be that mark. The inverted pink triangle on his forehead. His badge of honour and pride. The proof that he’d died in love and fighting for love. That he may have faltered, but in the end he would stand by his sister and Sherlock in spirit as the equals they should have been in life. The equals that  _everyone_  should have been.

John stepped into the room with a dozen other men and slowly stripped off his clothes. A couple began to snog hungrily, but John kept his eyes on his task. The clothes were dropped into baskets along with their shoes. He shivered. It was cold here. Too cold. That would change soon. There was a hiss and the gas came up through vents in the floor. John took a deep breath as though to smell spring, but his poetic actions were diminished by the wracking cough that followed. Red. Yellow. Orange. The ground rose up to meet him and he bit his tongue as his body convulsed. Pain fired synapses in his brain. Faces flashed before his eyes. Trees. Flowers. The sound of laughter and the smell of the rain.

Twenty years ago humanity reached their lowest point and 350 million people were put to death. Amongst them were the rich, the poor, the coloured, and the white. They were not equals in life, but they were equals in death. On the foreheads of those discovered after revolutionaries engaging in guerrilla warfare put an end to the camps were inverted pink triangles. In the end their murderous spree was what weakened the persecutors, as they had no way to safely dispose of that many bodies and were soon overworked and plagued by disease. The world was devastated. Lines were drawn. Camps were torn down. People rose up and then fell back like a wave leaving behind… nothing.

Entire countries had to rebuild. Burdens were shared by those who were wise enough to accept or give aid. Those who were not were soon filled with silent radio waves. Once more homo sapiens were left to crawl out of the primordial ooze, build homes, write laws, and declare  _I am human_.

This time they did it the right way.

 

<http://www.answers.com/Q/How_many_gay_people_are_in_the_world>


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